Drive
by Dakota-Jones
Summary: Chas has a secret passion for golfing, one that he'd never willingly tell John about. But when the secret comes out, will his talent become much more than a hobby and much more to John than a teasing point? FINISHED!
1. Chapter 1

I got this idea because Shia's next movie is about golf. Somehow, Chas golfing is too interesting an idea to pass up. If I get too heavy on the golf terminology just tell me- I'm trying to keep it simple and understandable for all the non- golfers out there.

Pairing: Chastine

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, wish I did.

* * *

Chas slammed his driver through another ball, sending it screaming down the fairway and landing about ten feet short of the green. He stared after it, sighed, and then started to walk after the shot. His partner stared at him wide eyed for a few moments before following.

"Chas…Chas, that's a 210 yard drive. What the hell has gotten into you?" Damon asked, quickly catching up. Chas shrugged.

"Just blowing off steam."

"Well, save some of that steam for next weekend. You hit like that and the scouts will put you in the state tournament, for sure."

Chas snorted. "I'm not interested. You know that."

They reached Damon's ball and he pitched it up onto the green, and then they headed up to Chas's ball. He chipped it up onto the green, took a putt for the par three, and then waited on Damon as he two-putted to the hole.

"So…how are things at your job?" Damon asked. He wasn't used to Chas being so quiet on the course. Usually he was the biggest jokester out there.

"Frustrating."

"I thought that didn't bother you anymore."

"It got _more_ frustrating."

They reached the eighth tee box, leading out onto a 370 yard par four with an elevated green. He had hardly dropped his ball and taken one look out toward the flag before he drove a perfect shot straight down the fairway, 190 yards out. Damon shook his head in disbelief, following Chas's shot with one that faded to the right, obviously intimidated by Chas's intensity.

"You know…you really should try for the tournament," Damon said as they walked down to make their next shots for the green.

"Even if I _wanted_ to…I have to work that day. Constantine has to be in San Francisco to trade off some relics."

"You gonna drive him around your whole life?"

"It's about getting a paycheck, Damon. I can't afford to skip a day and embarrass myself in some tournament."

"Have you even talked to him about it?"

Chas flushed, pausing while Damon pitched his shot up to within twenty yards of the green. "He doesn't know I golf."

"He doesn't _know_?"

"He would laugh me out of the cab if I told him. He'd think it was a waste of time," Chas said with a shrug.

"He wouldn't laugh if he saw the way you swing."

"John doesn't know the first thing about golf. He wouldn't know what end of the club to hit the ball with."

Damon chuckled, relieved that a bit of the boy's humor was coming back. He'd always been paired up with 40-some year old club members before, men who acted like a 25 year old shouldn't be in such a 'serious game'. When he'd seen Chas playing and offered to be the boy's partner, he hadn't expected that the 17 year old boy would be the most uplifting person he'd ever played with. They'd improved each other's games by leaps and bounds over the past six months.

But Damon had never seen Chas so downtrodden and upset. His boss must've been pretty damn hard on him this week.

By the time they finished their round of golf, though, Chas was in much better spirits. Golf always cheered him up like that, especially if he played well- and that morning, he'd played better than ever.

He wouldn't realize until later just how vital the morning warm-up would be.

* * *

"You're late, kid," Jon said as he sat down in the back of the cab. Chas was most definitely late, by twenty minutes; he hadn't even had time to take his golf clubs out of the trunk. He could always fib to John if he saw them, though, and say that someone had accidentally left them in there and he hadn't had a chance to sell them off yet.

"I'm sorry…had a busy morning. That convention is in town for that golf tournament, lots of people need rides to their hotel," Chas explained. It was all true, after all. "Besides, it's not like you were awake at noon anyway."

John snorted lightly, lighting up a cigarette. "Whatever, kid. Just take me to 6th Street. Got an exorcism to do."

* * *

It was more than a normal exorcism.

It was _much_ more than a normal exorcism.

When they got there, three people were holding the man down on the front steps of the apartment building. He was struggling, fighting with inhuman strength, eyes wild and skin pale and clammy. Chas pulled up next to the scene, wide-eyed, while John practically leaped out of the cab, cursing quietly.

"Can I help, John?"

"Stay in the cab, Chas."

John immediately caught sight of the problem- the demon had gotten ahold of a talisman. It was a small pendant on a necklace, about the size of a large marble. The pendant was binding the demon to this plain, making exorcism practically impossible as long as the pendant was within a few blocks of the possessed individual.

"Chas!" John screamed, helping to hold down the man. Chas was already out of the cab, waiting impatiently to be told what he could do to help, even though he figured John wouldn't ask for his help at all.

"Yeah John?"

John grabbed onto the pendant, and then tore it off the demon's neck. The creature shrieked in frustration and fury as John tossed the pendant to Chas.

"Get rid of that thing! Get it far away, and fast!"

Chas caught the pendant, surprised at how heavy it was, and his first instinct was to get in the cab and drive it away. But two things kept him from taking that approach.

One, he wouldn't know what to do once he got that far away, and John wouldn't know where he went.

Two, the demon had now gotten the upper hand, and John was trying to pull it off the civilian it was strangling.

"Chas, get it _away_! _NOW!_" John screamed, practically panicking.

_There's only one way you can get this pendant that far away that fast,_ Chas thought, and he shoved aside the indecision and rushed to the trunk of his cab. John was yelling at him, cursing at him in confusion, but Chas ignored him and pulled a tee and his driver out of the trunk.

_Just like this morning. You can do this_, Chas thought, teeing up the pendant in the crack between two panels of sidewalk. He looked up at John one more time; the utterly flabbergasted look on the man's face would've been comical if it weren't for the situation they were in.

_See the golf course. Forget everything else. Nothing else matters._

Chas set up the shot, and the demon became frantic, clawing and biting, generally out of control.

Chas didn't even hear the growls and shrieks. With one look down the road, he swung the driver, and it felt good from the moment the club smacked through the pendant.

The silver pendant flew down the road with scorching speed, over all the cars and out of sight. At least 250 yards. John stared at Chas in absolute shock, mouth hanging open in surprise before a scratch from the severely weakened demon snapped him out of it.

Chas put the driver back in the bag in the trunk and closed it, and by that time the exorcism was finished. It had been a weak demon, only a real adversary with the aid of the pendant.

Chas kept his head down and got in the car, only just then beginning to realize what he'd done. John was never going to let him live this down, not after seeing that he had a set of clubs and knew how to use them. He'd never hear the end of this. He'd likely end up with some dorky golf nickname now.

"Chas…what the hell was that?" John asked as he got in the car and pointed in the general direction the pendant went. They would need to recover it before another demon found and used it.

Chas pulled out into traffic, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of licorice. "You told me to get the thing away. I couldn't drive fast enough in this traffic."

"You know what I mean."

Chas feigned ignorance. "Um…I…what _do_ you mean?"

"I didn't know you played golf."

"Who said I do? Those, uh…the clubs aren't mine…"

"Bullshit."

Chas sighed. "So I played golf, so what? It's not that big of a deal…help me look for this talisman."

"You hit it all the way down past that auto shop, Chas."

"…I did?"

"You did."

"Oh."

Cue awkward silence.

"How often?"

Chas frowned. "Huh?"

"How often do you play?" John asked very slowly, as if Chas were hard of hearing.

"Oh, not that often…"

"_Chas_."

"Every morning," Chas squeaked out quietly at John's tone.

"For how long?"

"A…well, my whole life, really…but it's just a hobby, and I-"

"Show me."

Chas looked at John in the rearview mirror, his eyes wide. "What?"

"You heard me. I want to see you golf."

"Why?"

John smirked, taking a drag off his newly-lit cigarette. "Balthazar plays golf too."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own Constantine. I don't own any of the characters in Constantine. I don't own Shia. I don't own Keanu. I don't own golf. I don't own any golf courses in California. I don't own Harry Vardon. I don't own Tiger Woods…….did I get 'em all?

NOTE: A few times in this chapter I'll use the word 'Vardonic'. For those who don't know, Harry Vardon was one of the best golfers who ever lived- and one of the most intimidating to compete against. Therefore, if a person is called Vardonic, it means they put your nerves on edge for one reason or another. There's so much more I could say about Harry Vardon, but I'm sure you don't want a history lesson…

* * *

When Chas came to pick John up the next morning, it was the first time he'd ever seen the man out of bed before eleven. John was smoking a cigarette, standing by the door of the bowling alley, waiting for Chas to show up.

"Relax, kid," John said with a chuckle, sliding in the backseat.

"I _am_ relaxed. Why wouldn't I be relaxed? I'm relaxed."

"…My point exactly."

Chas simply conceded that point, drumming his fingers nervously on the steering wheel as he waited for the light to turn green.

"So you've been doing this every morning all along? Getting up at six and playing a round of golf?" John asked.

"Uh huh."

"No wonder you practically fall asleep at the wheel by eleven. You could've told me, you know."

Chas shrugged. "I just didn't think it was that big of a deal. Life off the job stays off the job- you told me that."

John actually laughed softly at that. "That I did, Chas."

They arrived at the course fifteen minutes before Chas's usual tee-time, and Damon's eyebrows flew up at the sight of John stepping out of the back. As John headed toward the door, finishing his cigarette, Damon rushed over to Chas as the teen pulled his golf bag out of the trunk of the cab.

"Chas…is that who I think it is?"

"Yeah, it is."

"What's he doing here?"

Chas sighed. "He, uh…caught one of my practice swings, to put it simply. He wanted to come watch."

Damon looked back at Constantine for a moment, smirking. "He's, um…intense."

Chas snorted. "Let's play. Just…ignore him."

"Vardonic?"

"Quite a bit."

They headed out to the course, Constantine following but not interfering on their conversation. Chas felt like a Q-school scout was following him on the course, and it was unnerving. Vardonic indeed.

"You lead today," Chas said, and Damon nodded. Damon teed off and sent a beautiful drive right onto the green.

Chas set up his ball on the tee, quickly realizing that the pressure of John watching him like a hawk was quickly getting to him. His breath wasn't even, the club didn't feel right in his hands, and he wasn't sure whether to take the ambitious shot for the green despite the dog-leg, or to play it safe on the fairway.

He picked up a few blades of grass and let them go, testing the wind. There was a good chance he could get this on the green in one, then two putt in for par. He'd done it so many times before, he didn't see why he couldn't today.

He set up the shot, trying to relax his shoulders and hands and failing miserably. He was gripping the club too tight from the very first moment of his backswing, and the stiff follow-through sent the ball slicing off to the right. Off the fairway, in the rough, only 100 yards out.

Now it would be a reach to even get par.

Damon stared at him in shock for a moment, but Chas avoided both his and John's gaze as they headed out to his ball. It was buried in the rough, a hard lie.

"You'll have to chip it out, then pitch it up to the green and hope for one over par," Damon said, and Chas shook his head.

"I'll use an iron, try and smash it out to the edge of the green."

Damon shrugged; Chas had gone for harder shots before and made them, so who was he to tell the ambitious teen how he could and couldn't play?

Chas set up the shot, trying to ignore how John simply leaned against a nearby tree, his eyes locked on Chas as he took a practice swing.

_Just ignore him, _he thought, though he could already feel his subconscious screaming at him- _Ignore John Constantine? Yeah right._

Chas knew from the moment the club made contact with the ball that it was a bad shot- a _really_ bad shot. He looked up a fraction of a second too soon, anxious to see how his ambitious shot would fare, and he almost completely missed the ball. The club topped it, sending it skirting across the grass, only 30 yards forward onto the fairway.

As Chas stared at the ball in shock, Damon reached over and pressed his hand to the boy's forehead.

"Are you okay, Chas? This isn't like you," he said, genuinely concerned. Chas muttered something not quite discernable, once again afraid to meet John's gaze as he walked out to his ball.

"I'll go for the green…hope for one over, if I one-putt the green," he said in hardly a whisper, and Damon nodded. It seemed a good idea for Chas to play it safe from here on out, after he'd choked on the first two shots of the first hole.

Chas ended up getting a double bogey on the first hole- two over par. As long as he could remember, he'd never double-bogeyed the first hole on this course. Very few had.

The next five holes were much the same- Chas was missing fairways and stabbing at putts left and right, earning quiet encouragement from Damon and Vardonic silence from John. Then, after the sixth hole, Damon finally stopped Chas and pulled him aside. John looked pretty much bored, smoking a cigarette and watching some golfers flub bunker shots on the next hole.

"Alright, what's wrong?" Damon asked, and Chas shrugged a bit helplessly.

"I'm just off today, that's all."

"This isn't 'just off', and you know it."

Chas looked down at the ground, his face flushing with embarrassment as he tapped his driver on the ground. "M'just not used to him watchin' me, that's all."

"He isn't."

Chas looked up at Damon with a confused expression. "Uh…I'm pretty sure he is, Damon."

Damon smirked. "I've seen you when you really start playing the game, Chas. I could put an airhorn right up against your head when you set up a shot and you'd never know I blew it until your ears started bleeding."

Chas couldn't help but chuckle at that. "Somehow I doubt that…"

"Alright, so I'm exaggerating…but you get my point, right? Go up to this tee, find your shot, and don't worry about your damn boss. Just the ball and the shot. You know how to do this, I've seen you pull off this course better than the local professionals. Just do what you always do, and you could still even have a chance at trouncing me…again."

Chas took a deep breath, glancing at the overly-bored John, and then out at the fairway. 310 yard par four. This had always been one of his favorite holes, and one of the hardest on the course, with two sand traps and a water hazard easily fallen into from a tee shot.

"Alright. I'll give it a shot."

Damon patted Chas's shoulder and then gave him a gentle push toward the tee.

_This is it. If you don't make this shot, John's going to walk away, and he'll always assume that one shot at the apartments was a fluke._

He looked out at the fairway, then at the green. Only once before had he tried for the green from the tee and made it, but suddenly, his intuition gave him a kick in the ass.

_Take the shot. You'll make it._

He could see the shot, clear as day, and he could see where it would end up.

He stepped up to the tee, set up the shot, and all the sounds of the day faded into the background. His driver didn't feel like a clumsy piece of graphite anymore, but an extension of him, and without hesitation he pulled back and wailed on the ball.

It screamed down the fairway with a height and distance better than any shot yesterday, and then dropped on the green, the backspin sending it into a curve ten yards from the hole. Damon blinked in surprise, and Chas vaguely saw out of the corner of his eye as John's cigarette dropped to the ground.

The rest of the round was a blur. It was swing after swing, each as effective and on-mark as the last, putts dropping one after another like well trained ferrets. Chas was so focused that he barely noticed Damon and John conversing in-between holes during the last fourth of the game.

When his last putt dropped into the hole at the eighteenth, Chas let out a breath that he seemed to have been holding since the seventh tee. Still holding his putter and the ball, he gave John an impish yet shy smile.

"So, uh…that's it. Um…yeah."

John took one last drag off his cigarette, and then tossed it into the fringe and stamped it out before looking back up at Chas.

"_Now_ I think we're getting somewhere, kid. Let's go get you signed up for the tournament qualifier on Saturday."

The color seemed to drain from Chas's face. "What? How'd you know?" Even without getting an immediate answer, Chas looked over his shoulder at Damon.

"You are _very_ dead," he said, though he was less worried about getting revenge on Damon than he was about figuring out why John was so interested- that man _always_ had a hidden agenda. And Chas knew he didn't want to get caught in the middle of one of those...


	3. Chapter 3

Chas had never been so worn out in his life.

John was like a drill sergeant, making sure Chas was at the driving range every morning for an hour, then eighteen holes of golf. Sometimes another nine holes if Chas didn't find his stride soon enough. And now that it was the day before the tournament qualifier, John was even more unbearable.

"John, this is ridiculous. I've played this hole seven times. It's just not working today," Chas said, taking off his hat long enough to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

"One more time. One over par won't cut it."

"Well, what if I don't _want_ to 'cut it'? I never even wanted to be in this tournament qualifier in the first place!"

John groaned and rolled his eyes. "Why wouldn't you, kid? You have the talent, the opportunity, so what's the problem here?"

"I don't want to compete!"

"Why the hell _not_?"

"Because I'll _lose_, John!"

There was a long silence, during which Chas teed up his shot, pulled back, and killed the ball with a slam from the driver. The ball went dead-straight down the fairway, hit the embankment below the green, and bounced up onto it.

"_There's_ your damn shot. I'm _done_."

Chas dropped the club and began to walk away, and John did a double take between him and the shot before stumbling after him.

"Wait! Chas, wait!" He ordered, but Chas didn't stop.

"You think I don't know what you're up to, John?" He asked harshly. "This is all about me embarrassing Balthazar on his own turf, isn't it? Do you realize just how _good_ of a golfer he is?"

"That's not the only thing, Chas, and you-"

"He could be in the PGA if he wanted to. _That's _how good he is, and you want me to jump in this and embarrass myself? It's just a _hobby_, John!"

"_That_ was not 'just a hobby' kind of shot!" John yelled, grabbing Chas by the shoulder and spinning the teen around to face the drive he'd just made.

Chas sighed in frustration. "Where'd it go, anyway?"

"Ten feet from the hole."

Chas snorted and shook his head. "You must be pretty damn happy then. See ya."

Chas turned and started walking again, and John's fists tightened.

"Don't you fuckin' walk away from me, Chas!"

Chas didn't stop walking.

* * *

When Chas went to John's apartment that night, the man was on his third glass of scotch.

Chas closed the door and stepped over to the table, and John didn't even speak as he stood up, got another glass, poured scotch in it, sat down, and slid the glass over to Chas.

"Here. Have a drink, kid."

"I'm underage…"

"Like you care."

Chas shrugged and dropped his golf bag by the door, sitting down at the table and taking a swig of the scotch. It wasn't like he'd never drank the stuff before- just when no one was around to catch him.

"Listen, John, I'm sorry about the way I acted today…"

"Whatever."

"Hey, I'm apologizing here. The least you could do is let me finish."

"Right, right. Go ahead," John muttered, a drunken slur to his voice.

"Anyway…I was thinkin' maybe I could give this tournament thing a shot. I mean, if I make it in the top ten in the qualifier, there's a bit of a cash prize, and…I'm kinda three weeks behind on rent…"

There was a long silence at the table before John nodded slowly. "Okay, Chas."

"Okay? That's all you've got to say?"

John shrugged. "Yeah, that's about it."

Chas almost laughed, taking another long drink from his glass and reaching to refill it. John didn't object.

In fact, John didn't object the next _four _refills.

Chas wasn't sure how it happened, who started it, or exactly how many glasses of hard liquor it took to get there- but the next clear memory was of him pressed back against his golf bag, the clubs painfully pressing into his back as John's hands roughly pulled his shirt up and off. John's lips were all over his, and all over his neck, along the line of his collarbone, and soon enough the golf bag fell over, taking them to the ground with it.

Somehow in their drunken stupor they made it to the bedroom…and that's where Chas's memory went dark and animalistic urge for _sensation_ took over.

* * *

Chas woke up to the strange feeling that he'd fallen asleep on something other than his meager, lumpy mattress.

He also woke up to the strange sensation of his bed _breathing_.

He opened his eyes, and was met with not only a pounding, constant pain- but the fact that his limbs were tangled with those of John Constantine. And neither were wearing more than the bedsheets.

"Fuck!"

He jerked away, tangling in the sheets and falling off the bed. John woke with a start, looking around and rubbing his eyes. "Whassat?"

Chas sat on the floor for a few moments, stunned. What had happened last night? First the apology, the drinking, the make out session…

_Wait. Make out session? With JOHN?_

"Chas, you okay?" John asked, leaning over the side of the bed, seeming completely used to this sort of morning situation.

"Okay? Okay? Why the hell would I be okay! What the hell happened, John?"

John shrugged, grabbing for his cigarettes on the bedside table. "Drunken fuck. It happens."

Chas groaned and stood up, met with a sharp, lancing pain that he far from expected.

"Holy Christ, what the fuck did you do, run a traffic cone up my ass!"

John smiled smugly. "Thank you."

Chas happened, at that moment, to catch a glance of the clock.

"Oh, shit, the tournament!"

John looked sleepily perplexed. "What about it?"

"My tee-off time is in twenty fuckin' minutes, John!"

"Oh," John started, lighting up a cigarette. "That's not a good thing."

Chas was already pulling on his clothes (although he wasn't having much luck in finding where his jeans had been thrown), and he gave John an incredulous look.

"You're lucky I'm late, John, or I'd kill you right about _now_."

_I'm lucky I'm late, or I'd be thinking far too much about what happened last night. Because drunken fuck sure as hell doesn't cover it._


	4. Chapter 4

NOTE: I'm not fond of this chapter, just so y'all know. It felt awkward, took me too long to write, and it doesn't flow. But nonetheless, I can't leave it out because it has far too many important issues that begin here. So…read it, not for the horrible writing, but for the important facts that tie into the rest f the story.

Public service announcement over.

* * *

Chas was out the door in ten minutes, leaving John to find a different cab to take to the tournament. He got there exactly three minutes before his tee time, and his partner for the day raised an eyebrow.

"Another three minutes and you would've been one down from the start," the man huffed as Chas yanked on his golf shoes.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry."

The man shrugged. "Not my problem."

A tournament official approached them, curiously staring at Chas as he yanked on his golf glove and tried to catch his breath.

"Your caddies, gentlemen," the man said, introducing two teenage boys- in fact, Chas's caddy looked about the same age as him.

"Are you kidding me?" The caddy asked, circling Chas like a vulture. "This guy is gonna compete?"

Chas felt his fists clench, and he shot the caddy a glare. "If you have a problem carrying my clubs, then don't bother," he snapped.

"How much are you gonna pay me?"

"Depends on how well you do your job."

The caddy snorted. "Screw this. You can carry your own damn bag, I'll spring for someone a little higher on the food chain," he said, looking to the tournament official.

The tournament official looked at his watch, and then shrugged. "Mr. Kramer, you have one minute to find a new caddy or you're disqualified."

_Shit. Shit shit shit, _Chas thought, turning around. _If only Damon weren't competing too…he'd caddy for you._

As if sent by Lady Luck herself, a taxi pulled up and Constantine stepped out, dropping his cigarette and stamping it out. He walked up to Chas and started to say something, but was interrupted by Chas's golf bag getting shoved into his arms.

"John, John Constantine. He'll do it," Chas said to the official about thirty seconds before the time. The tournament official looked bored as he scribbled down John's name and scurried away, muttering something about Chas getting a move-on or he'd be penalized.

John blinked a few times, looking down at the clubs in his arms- he'd quite obviously downed a good sized glass of whiskey in a very quick fashion before leaving the apartment.

"Do what?" he asked, looking up at Chas.

"No time, I'll explain later. Carry those."

John's eyes narrowed. "Me? Carry your clubs? What do I look like, a fuckin' caddy?"

Chas had already yanked the driver from the bag and was headed for the first tee. "You _are_ my caddy, John."

John hesitated a few moments in surprise before rushing to catch up, setting the bag down to the side of the tee box and walking over to Chas as the teenager set up his tee and ball and did a quick practice swing.

"No way. No fuckin' way. I'm not lugging around your damn clubs all day. It's hot out here!"

Chas sighed, looking out at the flag before looking over at John.

"My caddy just snubbed me because I'm the youngest guy in this tournament. Judging by the general attitude of the people here, there's no way I'll find a caddy willing and able in the ten seconds before my tee time. So, if you don't do it, I'll have to step off this course. You'll lose your petty little chance at revenge," he said, his voice fast and to-the-point.

_Not that there's much of a chance even if I do play…but being able to pay the rent for this month would be nice._

John grumbled, muttered, cursed, and then shook his head and stepped back.

"What the hell are you waiting on, kid? Hit that thing."

Chas was beyond thought. The day was only an hour old and already too frustrating to take. He was suffering through a hangover and other aches and pains, his emotions were in turmoil from last night's events, he could tell that no one thought he should be in this tournament, and quite suddenly he didn't want to _be_ in this tournament.

All his frustration, all his anger, every bottled up emotion slammed through that first swing like a released catalyst.

Everyone who'd been watching the young man with idle amusement was suddenly struck dumb by the flaming shot down the center of the fairway. More than a few jaws dropped as the ball hit the green ten feet past the hole, and a backspin brought it six feet closer.

"Well…I'll be darned," his partner said, staring at the shot for a few moments. Then he shook his head, walked over to Chas, and extended his hand.

"I'm Arthur Faraday. I own this club."

Chas's eyes widened, and he shook the man's hand with fervor. "It's an honor to meet you, sir. You do a wonderful job of taking care of this place."

John rolled his eyes at the obvious sucking-up, but Mr. Faraday seemed quite pleased by Chas's show of respect.

"I've seen you out here a lot, but no one told me you could pull off shots like that. What do you say to a private wager, just between you and I?"

"No, sir, I couldn't. I mean, I would, if I had any money to place the bet…"

"_I'll_ take that bet," John said, stepping forward. "Five hundred on the kid."

Mr. Faraday laughed heartily. "Five hundred it is," he said before driving his own ball down the fairway.

* * *

The bet was won by the ninth tee- Chas was five strokes up on Faraday when they decided to sit down and have a drink to get out of the scorching sun for a few moments.

"Mr. Kramer…what are you doing right now? College? A job?" Mr. Faraday asked as John smoked a cigarette a little distance away.

Chas's cheeks burned with embarrassment. "I'm a cab driver, sir."

Mr. Faraday nodded, taking a sip of his lemonade. "And your golfing?"

"Just a hobby, really. I caddied when I was younger because I needed a day job, and I just liked the game."

"If it's just a hobby, then what the hell are you doing trying out for a statewide tournament?"

Chas hesitated, keeping his gaze averted. "My day job doesn't always cover the rent. I'm a little behind."

"A little?"

"…A lot."

Mr. Faraday nodded again. None of this seemed to be affecting him. "Who's your caddy?"

"That's my boss. John Constantine. He agreed to help me out for the day."

"Right, right. And how much does he pay you?"

_Geez, can this guy get any more instrusive? _Chas thought, but he wasn't about to blow off the guy running the competition.

"Depends on how busy the day is. Usually $6.50 an hour."

"How would you like to make $5000 for every shot you take?"

Chas blinked, and then he realized what Mr. Faraday was talking about. Going professional.

"I…uh…"

Mr. Faraday smiled. "Just think about it, Chas. You've got the raw talent…imagine what it would be like to never have to worry about the rent again. With enough work, you could make it to that level in no time."

_But then I'd have to leave John behind._

Chas didn't articulate that thought- he didn't get a chance to. Mr. Faraday had already stood and was headed on to the tenth tee.

"Hope you had a nice sucking-up fest," John muttered as Chas walked over to him.

"Well, John, he kinda owns the place. I can't exactly blow him off."

"I don't know…you're pretty good at blowing things in general."

Chas shot John a glare, his jaw set. "Now is _not_ the time, John. And as far as I'm concerned, _that never happened_."

"Oh, so that pain in your ass really _did_ come from a traffic cone."

"Fuck you, John. Fuck you," Chas said angrily. _Maybe it would be okay to just walk away from him for Q-school after all. Then maybe, just maybe you could figure out your own life without hinging it on a self absorbed egotistical maniac._

Chas stormed away to the tee, and John sighed heavily, watching him for a few moments. His eyes traveled up and down the teenager's body, and he swallowed hard.

_It was just a drunken fuck, Constantine. Don't get attached. You never have, and you never will._

"John, my driver! I kinda need it!"

_But would you carry anyone else's golf clubs all over the damn course?_

…_Fuck. This whole 'don't get attached' thing is not working._


	5. Chapter 5

Chas played just as well the rest of the day as he had on the front nine. All the anger and frustration built up into a well played round of golf, and when he walked off the last tee and looked at the scoreboard at the clubhouse, he was floored.

"That can't be right," he said to Arthur, his eyes widening.

Arthur chuckled. "Kid…you really underestimate yourself," he said, walking away. John walked up next to Chas, taking a long look at the complex board of numbers.

"Yours is at the top," he commented, pointing to the board.

"Uh huh."

"And…William Dextera is below that."

William Dextera, also known as Balthazar. "That's right," Chas said quite numbly.

John hesitated. "You beat him?"

Chas cringed. "It's just the qualifying round, John. All that means is that I'm going to the state tournament. And it's only by one stroke."

"But you beat him."

For the first time that day, Chas smiled. "Yeah. Yeah, I did."

_You forget, John, that it's a two round tournament over two days. That's a lot of room for error._

---------- Later That Evening ---------

Chas had just finished getting his gold medal for being top qualifier and had sat through an hour of getting information for the tournament, and he finally headed out to his cab, tiredly dragging his clubs along.

Someone suddenly grabbed him from behind and dragged him between two buildings, and his golf bag dropped to the ground as the man slammed him up against the wall.

The guy had to be 6'4 and 300 pounds, a hunk of walking muscle. His grip felt like a vice on Chas's shoulders.

"You've got a lot of nerve, kid," he growled.

"I-"

"Mr. Dextera has won this tournament for the last three years running. This year _won't_ be different…or you'll have big problems on your hands."

Chas's eyes widened, and he swallowed hard. "Are you threatening me?"

The man smiled, his teeth crooked. "I'm giving you a helpful suggestion for your health. Lose this tournament. Or else."

The man let go and stalked away, and Chas took a few deep breaths in disbelief of what had just happened.

"Geez…what happened to golf being a _gentlemen's'_ sport?" He muttered to himself, picking up his bag. He headed toward his cab, but was once again interrupted before he got there.

"Mr. Kramer!"

Chas stopped and turned around, and put down his bag as two men walked toward him. Both were tall, but one was well tanned and blonde, and the other was a bit chunky and brunette.

"Mr. Kramer, my name is Matthew Burton. I'm the PGA representative for this week's tournament," the blonde said, and then he gestured to the brunette. "This is Lewis Gerard. He's covering the tournament for a local magazine."

Chas shook both their hands, wondering what this could possibly be about.

"We watched your performance today, and we were quite impressed," Lewis said, nodding enthusiastically. "I'd like to interview you for the magazine tomorrow, before the tournament day. There's a lot of interest in such a golfer coming from nowhere and taking the qualifying round."

"Well, it was just a bit of luck-"

"So you'll do the interview?"

Chas blinked. "Uh…well, I don't see why not…"

"Wonderful! I'll meet you at the Mendel Clubhouse at 6 o'clock tomorrow evening then. Dinner's on me."

Chas didn't even have time to offer thanks before Matthew jumped in. "My supervisor heard about your performance, Mr. Kramer. He wants me to give you a promise."

"A promise, sir?"

"If you take this tournament tomorrow, the PGA would like to offer you free admission through a private Q-school upstate. We know in your financial situation paying in full would not be near an option, but letting your talent fall through the cracks would be damn sinful."

Chas was speechless. He stuttered for a few moments, unsure, and managed a weak, "…Really?"

Matthew smiled. "Really. So…win this tournament, kid. The PGA is looking forward to training a new rising star. You've just got to show us endurance, and we'll show you one of the best schools in the country for golfing," he said, and then he leaned forward so only Chas could hear his next words. "And I hear that Bruce Harmon is looking for new, promising talent to take on."

"See you tomorrow!" Lewis said, and quick as that, they were gone.

Chas was too stunned to move. Bruce Harmon? As in Tiger Woods's golfing coach? It was unreal, a total fantasy.

One win in a qualifying round, and suddenly everyone wanted something from him. Him, Chas Kramer, the poverty stricken 17-year-old cab driver. For the first time in his life, John had become a backdrop- even a complication.

_What have you gotten yourself into, Chas?_

_

* * *

_

Chas couldn't sleep that night. He was still sorting everything out in his brain, trying to figure things out.

Dextera's goon had made it clear to him the immediate consequences of winning the tournament, even though Chas was far from confident that he could win.

But…if he won the tournament, he would get a free ride through Q-school, a possible ticket into the PGA. And while that wouldn't get him set for life, he wouldn't have to struggle for rent ever again, as long as he could hit a ball and hit it well. John's maximum pay looked like pocket change compared to what he could make if he ever got to the senior tour of the PGA.

Leaving John…that was a whole different issue. Could he actually give up what he'd been doing, his other passion? He'd always loved the stuff John was involved in as much as he loved golf.

He had to get serious sometime, though. John had made it clear to him that he didn't have what it took to be a successful exorcist like him. Here, the people believed in him. They saw his talent as more than a means of getting revenge or winning bets.

He would never be anything to John, nothing more than a driver and an occasional amusement. And an occasional fuck, evidently. John didn't care about him.

But maybe he could be more. Maybe, just maybe.

* * *

John couldn't sleep that night.

He'd seen the way everyone kept on about the young cab driver who came out of nowhere to be top qualifier. Everyone wanted to meet him, wanted to shake hands with him.

And John Constantine was getting jealous.

He'd never thought that his apprentice's attention could be diverted so drastically. And what was the funniest part was that he was the one who convinced Chas to do this.

Now, he was having second thoughts.

Now, he was afraid that he might lose the only thing that had become constant in his life.

The only thing he _cared_ for.

He sighed, sat up, and lit up a cigarette, fidgeting nervously. He couldn't believe how worked up he was getting over this. The kid wouldn't leave him for a silly sport, a hobby.

Unless he won the tournament. Suddenly everybody in the golf business would want this kid on their payroll.

_Maybe you could give him a raise._

_A raise…yeah right. You can't offer him half the money he could get being a famous golfer._

_You'll have to just talk to him, let him know that you'd really like him to stay. Maybe he'll listen._

_Maybe…just maybe._


	6. Chapter 6

Chas woke up bright and early the next morning, and it was out to the driving range. For the first time in the past week, John wasn't there to make sure no shots went awry.

But he was far from alone.

A small gallery of people had found out his daily routine- a few fans, a couple reporters, and a few of his competitors- and they were already there, some hitting a few balls themselves. When he walked up to one of the small covered cubicles and filled his bin with balls, it was like the flags for silence had gone up.

He tried to ignore them, going about his usual routine, working from his pitching wedge up to his driver. He hit about two hundred balls before deciding to head out and play his eighteen holes for the day- and his gallery followed.

_Do these people not have lives? _He thought as he shouldered his bag and headed for the course. The course wasn't all that crowded- most people had taken the commute three hours north already to the course where the tournament would be played. Chas, however, didn't have that luxury. He'd only been able to scrounge together enough money to stay one night at a hotel up there, so he'd have to drive there in the morning.

He wouldn't even have time to take a practice round on the tournament course, on grounds he'd never played before. He would have to go strictly by the yardage book and his caddie's knowledge.

If he didn't end up without a caddie, like yesterday. Damon had qualified for the tournament too, and Chas knew he couldn't convince John to do it again, so if his caddie abandoned him there he was screwed.

He played a casual round of golf with Damon, though it was a little unnerving to have people following him around, deciphering his every move. Damon said very little during the round, as if afraid to break Chas's concentration.

_Or maybe he's mad at me, _Chas thought, the nervous thought jarring his putt, sending it five feet past the hole. He heard a murmur from the people watching, and he took a deep breath, trying to keep his frustration in check.

_They're just going to stand around and pinpoint all my faults. I'd like to see them try this, _he thought angrily as he sank the putt for par.

_Better get used to it. It's only gonna be worse at the tournament._

**That Evening**

"Thanks for coming, Mr. Kramer. I can't wait to talk to you about all this," Lewis said, pulling out the chair for Chas and shaking his hand before sitting down. Chas looked around nervously at the expensive surroundings, fidgeting with his tie as he sat down.

Well, not really his tie. The only reason he had a suit in the first place was because some guy forgot his suit bag in Chas's cab once. Chas figured that he'd never own a suit his size otherwise, and since there was no way to return it, he washed it and saved it.

"What kind of wine do you prefer?" Lewis asked, looking down the wine list. Chas stuttered a bit, and Lewis chuckled and waved his hand dismissively.

"Right, right, I remember. Poor kid. Well, I'll order a nice blush wine or something."

"Sir…I'm underage…"

"Uh huh, I know."

Chas blinked in surprise as Lewis ordered the wine for them both, and the waitress readily filled their glasses, without hesitating or asking for ID. Lewis smirked and leaned forward. "In this kind of world, kid, the right contacts can make anything happen. Wine is a perk."

He paused long enough to sip his wine, and then he flipped open his notebook. "So, let's get started. Where did you say you worked?"

"I'm a cab driver."

"Full time?"

"You could say that."

Lewis nodded. "What about family? What do they think of this?"

"I live on my own, Mr. Gerard," Chas said, blushing. Lewis looked up.

"Sensitive topic?"

Chas shrugged. "Not really. My parents were, uh…they were into drugs and all that. I got out as soon as I could."

"You go to school?"

"I'm saving up money right now. I've been thinking about college, but I haven't really decided yet."

Lewis smiled. "Single?"

Chas paused for just a moment, and he thought of John.

_Wait, no. One drunken fuck does not make him your boyfriend, Chas. It doesn't make him anything. Why would you even think that?_

"Yeah, I'm single," he said quietly.

Lewis took notes for a few minutes, and then he paused to think, tapping his pencil on the table as the waitress set down their salads.

"How do you think you'll do tomorrow?" He finally asked. "It's a pretty tough course up there, I've heard."

"I can only take it one shot at a time and hope for the best. That's all I've ever done," Chas said, and Lewis seemed to love that answer. He nodded, writing furiously.

"Are you intimidated at all, going head-to-head with the three time champ William Dextera?"

Chas paused a moment. Sure, he was intimidated as _fuck_, but he couldn't let that show too much. That would only make him more nervous. "Well…of course it's a little nerve wracking. I mean, he's the best player I've ever gone up against. But…like I said before, I'll take it one shot at a time. Play my own game. If it happens, it happens…and either way, I'm just glad I've made it this far."

* * *

Chas left the clubhouse mentally drained. Lewis had grilled him for over two hours about his plans for the future (especially about the temptation to go pro), about his personal life, about his game philosophy…it was ridiculous. Chas just wanted to play golf, not turn it into a college course. 

As he stepped toward his cab, he noticed someone lounging against it, casually smoking a cigarette. He slowed, but immediately recognized John's silhouette.

"What are you doin' out here?" He asked John a bit cautiously. If the guy was looking for another quick fuck, he'd come on the wrong night.

"I want to talk to you."

Chas sighed. "I've been talking nonstop for the past two hours, John…"

John thumped his hand on the cab. "Then give me a ride home. I'll pay you triple fare."

Chas would've objected, but he really needed the money. He shrugged and gestured to the cab, and John jumped in the back.

"So…why were you in some fancy clubhouse for almost three hours?" John asked, taking a drag off his cigarette.

"How did you know I was here?"

John shifted uncomfortably. "I asked around…I just wanted to talk to you, kid. Don't take this the wrong way."

"After the past few days, John, I don't know how to take anything, coming from you."

John looked like he wanted to say something, but he fell silent until they reached his apartment. He opened his door and looked expectantly at Chas.

"Just come inside for a couple minutes, Chas. Have a drink."

A pause.

"A non-alcoholic drink," John added sheepishly.

Chas hesitated, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. _Give the guy a chance, Chas. Maybe he just wants to apologize._

He got out of the car, ignoring the sigh of relief from John. They headed up and into the apartment, and John made a point of getting them both water.

"Listen, Chas…I've been hearing stuff. Lots of stuff."

Chas quirked an eyebrow. "What kind of stuff?"

"Stuff about you leaving for the PGA."

Chas snorted into his glass. "Those are just rumors, John. I'm not near good enough for the PGA."

John stared him down, obviously skeptical. "I heard they made you an offer."

"That's only if I win this tournament, John, and I don't think-"

"Oh, would you fuckin' stop it with the modest act!" John demanded, hitting his fist on the table. "You're _good_ at golf, Chas, better than anyone in this damn tournament. So tell me the fuckin' truth…if you win, are you going professional?"

Chas swallowed hard. "I haven't decided yet."

John let the silence sink in for an uncomfortable amount of time. He looked down at the floor, deep in thought, and then put out his cigarette and looked back up at Chas. "What would it take to get you to stay?"

Chas tilted his head. "What?"

"I want you to stay. I don't want you to go off to some golfing tour thing. What'll it take? A raise? I can take you up to ten bucks an hour, that should cover your expenses, no problem."

"John, I don't know-"

"Or I can maybe take you on a couple exorcisms, get you extra hours working with Beeman…'

"I'm not sure-"

"What is it that you want, Chas? Because whatever it is, I-"

"Would you _listen_ to me for once?" Chas snapped, standing up. "I can't just decide this in five seconds, John, not even overnight! You have to give me a little time here! It's not completely about the money, you know!"

"So what is it about, then? Is this about me not letting you help out? Is it-"

"It's about _my_ life for once, John!"

Chas said that with such passion, such fervor that it actually forced John into submissive silence. He watched as Chas paced, almost afraid to speak.

"All along, you've been thinking that this is about you," Chas started, almost desperately. "About your little revenge kick, about your _apprentice_, about your habits, your money, you, you, you! Have you even considered, for one second, that I just might be looking for something that's going to make _me _happy? Is it so bad for me to act conceited for once?"

John didn't say a word. His gaze was locked on the table, his hair in his eyes, looking like a kid who'd been put in the corner for stealing a cookie. Chas shook his head, and then headed for the door.

He'd barely heard John's chair getting shoved back before the man spun him around and pushed him up against the door. John's lips pressed against his hard, with bruising force, his hands gripping Chas's arms tightly.

Chas sighed softly into the kiss, giving in, not trying to pull away. It just felt right, despite everything going on in his mind, he couldn't bring himself to push John away.

After a few more moments of the intense lip-lock, John pulled away. Both of them were breathing hard, their warm breath mingling in the small amount of air between them. John stared into his eyes, waiting, looking more nervous than Chas had ever seen him.

"Stay."

It wasn't an order, which was a surprise, coming from John. It was a one word plea, a desperate request, not just referring to tonight but to the whole situation they were in. And for a few moments, Chas seriously considered throwing away everything and just saying yes.

"…I need time, John. The end of the tournament. I'll tell you then, I promise."

Chas was near tears of frustration as he gently pushed John away, and he slipped out the door and went to his cab before he had a chance to change his mind.

Inside, John leaned forward against the door, kicking himself for what he'd done. If only he'd controlled himself, kept his wits about him…

Now all he could do was wait.


	7. Chapter 7

John didn't plan on going up to the main tournament, he really didn't. He wasn't sure he could handle that kind of suspense for two days straight. But after not being able to resist taking a few large bets on Chas's success, he was forced to go for those 'business reasons'.

He arrived at his hotel at about 6am, after having convinced Hennessey to drive him up here. But when he walked in the lobby, he was faced with an early morning commotion he hadn't been expecting.

People were all gathered around one of the lobby benches, and someone was yelling for ice and some bandages, and yelling for someone to call 911. John set down his bag and gave Hennessey a confused look before pushing forward through the group.

"What the hell's going on?" He asked a man standing near the back. The man had a camera looped around his neck, obviously a journalist.

"The Kramer kid, the golfer. Someone just took a good whack at his hand with a crowbar, took off out the back."

John's heart leaped into his throat, and he practically threw people aside getting to the front of the group. Chas was sitting on the bench, his injured hand cradled to his chest, his eyes squeezed shut with agony.

"Chas…Chas, it's alright. Hang in there," John said, sitting down next to him. Chas looked up at John, his surprise masked by obvious pain.

"J-John…"

"Ssh. Let me see," John said, tugging at Chas's arm until the teenager let his hand fall away from his chest.

John practically groaned himself. Chas's knuckles and wrist were a bloody mess, the slice from the crowbar almost 7 inches long, cutting down his the back of his hand and his wrist.

John pulled off his jacket and wrapped it around the injury, getting a yowl of pain from the boy.

"Hennessey, start the car. He needs to get to the hospital," he said, helping Chas stand up. Hotel security arrived, but upon seeing the injury, they told John to get the boy out of the hotel and to a hospital.

"My tee off time…it's in two hours," Chas choked out as John helped him into the back of the car.

"Don't worry about that, kid, not right now," John insisted, keeping a steady pressure on the cut on Chas's hand. Chas choked out a sob of pain, and John pulled him close, stroking his hair and trying to keep him calm.

It was a ten minute ride to the hospital, but it seemed to take forever. Someone had called ahead and the doctors there were ready, taking him straight back into the ER.

"He'll be alright, John. He's a tough kid," Hennessey said, laying a comforting hand on John's shoulder.

"I should've come with him up here," John muttered, staring at the door they'd taken Chas through. "I should've been there to watch out for him."

"You couldn't have known this was going to happen. Nobody knew."

"Oh, come on, Hennessey. A teenager jumps into this big important tournament thing, shows up a CEO in the practice round…I should've seen it coming. I should've known!"

Hennessey sighed heavily, obviously unsure about what he could say or do to make the situation seem better than it was. John, meanwhile, was already plotting everything he was going to do to Balthazar when he got his hands on the pinstriped demon.

"Mr. Constantine? He's asking for you."

John turned around, and the nurse who'd spoken ushered him into the room where they were still working on Chas's hand. John cringed when he saw that the doctor was halfway through the stitches.

Chas looked up at John, his eyes fogged over with pain.

"Call the country club and tell them not to pull my entry."

John's eyes widened. "Chas, you can't-"

"There's nothing broken. It's just a cut. I'm going to play today."

There was such determination in Chas's voice that it was unnerving. John looked over at the doctor, who simply shrugged.

"I told him he'd be in no shape to play, but he won't listen," the doctor said, and John gave Chas a look.

"There'll always be other tournaments, Chas."

Chas shook his head fervently. "Someone did this so I wouldn't be able to play today. I'm not gonna let them have it that easy."

"Well, you're sure not going to show them up with your hand mangled like that."

Chas hesitated. "I never did expect to win, John. But I won't stop before I've finished all eighteen holes."

John was about to argue more. He really didn't want Chas to go out there and embarrass himself by playing two hours after his hand had been sliced open. But there was a determination, an intensity in Chas's eyes that he knew he couldn't let slide.

He sighed and ran his hand through his hair, and then he met Chas's gaze again.

"Alright. Fine. I'll call them and let them know."

Chas seemed immensely relieved, and John turned and left the room. He made the phone call to the country club, letting them know that Mr. Kramer would not be withdrawing his entry from the tournament, and that he would be on time to tee off.

He put down the phone, and then for a brief moment considered calling the people with which he had bets going on Chas's success in the tournament. He lifted the phone, started to dial, and then hesitated and put the phone back down.

_Everyone is going to be withdrawing their bets on him, John. Let him know that there's at least one person out there who still believes he can pull this off._


	8. Chapter 8

Chas's first practice shot shanked hard right into the woods. His second shot almost brought him to tears.

He was glad that he'd managed to find a place away from the press and spectators to warm up, because so far, this wasn't looking good. It wasn't looking good at all. Every single shot pulled painfully on the stitches, and that sudden shock of pain was enough to set off his timing the tiniest bit.

"Take it slow," John said, standing by Chas's golf bag. "Just relax and take it slow."

Chas nodded, re-gripping the seven iron in his hands and once again taking his stance.

_Forget your hand, it's not about that. It's about the rotation, get the club down and around using your midsection, not your arms. _

He swung again. It felt a little better, taking more of the pressure off his hands and directing it downward into stronger muscles. He still wasn't sure if he'd last an entire day, though, let alone two; the pain was still excruciating.

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," John said, but Chas just shook his head and shoved his seven iron into John's hands. He stared at his bag for a few long moments before defiantly pulling out his driver and hitting the ground with it to form a grass tee.

_You always trusted your driver, Chas. A cut can't change that. You have to find the fairway._

He took his stance, took a deep breath, and fired away. Pain shot through his hand and up his arm as if he'd been bitten, and the shot jerked hard left into some bushes.

_Fifteen minutes till tee time and you still haven't found your stride. You're a goner._

He worked continuously, each shot torturous on the stitches in the back of his hand. But club by club, he found a way to make the pain the least excruciating, putting more power into his midsection and less in his arms.

"Chas…it's time," John said, putting out his cigarette. Chas sighed, and then tugged uncomfortably on the bandage on his hand as they headed for the tee box.

_Don't let this pull you down. You've played through blisters, exhaustion, and dehydration. A cut is no different._

Chas got to the first tee box, and was surprised to see that a small crowd had gathered to follow his game. He stopped long enough to greet his obviously skeptical caddie, a 13 year old boy with a very dry personality, and then John insisted that he change the bandage on his hand before teeing off.

He heard a murmur go through the crowd as the old bandage was pulled off, already soaked with blood despite the stitches. John made quick work of putting on the new bandage, and Chas didn't even acknowledge it as he grabbed his driver and headed for the tee.

_Rely on rotation. Slow down the backswing. Do the best you can._

It was like being in a pressure cooker, standing in the middle of that crowd, all of them expecting him to fail. He could still hear the whispers, see his caddy's distracted expression, and…

Balthazar. William Dextera, standing beside his manager, watching Chas tee off.

He wanted to make sure his lackey had done the job right.

_I'll be damned if I let him have this win easy._

The caddy seemed to take a second look at Chas, a double take, and the whispers fell silent. It wasn't until then that Chas realized he'd growled in contempt.

Not that he cared. Dextera had given him just what he needed to forget the injury and play the game.

Backswing, swing, follow-through, all in what seemed like a split second. The ball sailed down the fairway, 240 yards down the 459 yard par 4. Chas cringed in pain and the club dropped from his hands, and his caddy scurried like a startled rabbit to pick it up.

Chas, cradling his injured hand, looked up and for the first time made eye contact with William Dextera. His gaze was intense, challenging, and Dextera smiled and tipped his hat before walking back toward the clubhouse.

Chas had shown him that this wasn't going to force him to throw in the towel. Dextera knew, and maybe it amused him- Chas didn't know and didn't care.

"Hey…Chas, you okay?" John asked, lighting up a cigarette. Chas nodded.

"I'm fine. Let's go."

* * *

After the front nine, Chas had an average score of 41. Five strokes behind the present leader, and obviously in excruciating pain that was only aggravated by each shot he took.

The officials allowed him a ten minute break after the ninth hole to rebandage his hand and recuperate for the holes ahead, probably out of pity. John made him take the favor, however, and spent extra time making sure the bandage was perfectly done on his hand.

"Just keep going like this. Don't push it," John advised as he worked. Chas nodded, his jaw set as he watched John dab away at the blood with a wet paper towel.

"I've gotta catch up."

"Not today you don't. Not in this tournament. You'll have other chances."

"Everyone expects me to fail," Chas said angrily, and John looked up. Chas flexed his hand, staring with barely restrained fury at the cut on his hand. "They expect me to play it safe, and just wait till next time. I can see it in every fuckin' person out there. Hell, my _caddy_ isn't even paying attention!"

"I think you're being paranoid…"

"Am I though?" Chas asked sharply, and John sighed. He looked torn, almost upset.

"If you're gonna play, you may as well win," he finally said, tying off the bandage. "But if you get blood all over those nice khakis, don't come cryin' to me."

Chas smirked. Just then, his caddy came running in the shack, breathing hard.

"Just got word of the scoring up ahead. Lowest score through eighteen is a 68."

Chas did the math quick. In order to tie the current leader, he'd have to finish the back nine with a 27.

Impossible. It had never been done before. Par for the back nine at this country club was a solid 32, though the front nine was a more difficult par 38.

_Think of it that way. The worst is behind you._

"I'm gonna get that 27."

John snorted. "The record for the back nine here is 28…and that was a perfectly healthy professional golfer. You said it yourself."

Chas smirked again, an intensity coming over him that he'd only felt a few times before.

"I'm gonna get 27."

* * *

By the 17th tee, Chas had to get one under par on both of the last two holes to get his 27. Two birdies. Any other time, this wouldn't sound like such a gargantuan task, but his hand was burning with intense, fiery pain.

Even if he made par on one and birdied the other, he'd tie the club record for the back nine. Not his main goal, but an extra perk; if he wanted to prove that he was a valid contender for day two of the tournament and intimidate Dextera, he'd have to do something extraordinary. And that meant breaking that record.

His crowd had grown considerably since the spectators began to realize that this youngster wasn't going to roll over and die on account of an uncalled-for attack. He'd gone after the back nine like a starving dog after scrap meat, taking risks, not hitting a single sand trap or water hazard.

He'd heard word that Dextera had done two strokes better than him on the front nine. That didn't help his outlook, not in the least, but he'd devoted himself to taking this one shot at a time.

The 17th hole was a 240 yard par three, a fairly simple design. It was straight down the fairway, with a sand trap in front of the green to the right and the left. A few yards short and to either side, and he could kiss his chances for birdie goodbye.

_Don't bother to follow the usual routine. If you lay it up short and chip it on, you'll only have a chance at par. You need to try and get this on the green in one. You've done a 240 yard drive before, you can do it again._

Take the stance, backswing, crush down into the ball, follow through- with one kink. The club slipped in his hands just a tiny bit on the downswing, and he caught the ball just barely enough on the heel of the club to affect its flight detrimentally.

"Shit…no…" He mumbled as the ball went noticeably left…

And buried itself in the sand trap.

Disaster.

He sighed, rubbing his hand gently, ignoring his caddy's pointed look at the blood seeping through the bandages.

_You can still get par. Blast it out onto the green, putt it in, and try to tie the record. You'll still come out in the lead, for now._

He got to the sand trap and took a look at the lie. The ball was almost buried, not enough by far to take relief or a penalty stroke.

This was what he'd been trying to avoid. In a sand trap like this, blasting the ball out would put maximum pressure on his hands, especially at the point of contact.

He'd just have to take his best shot and hope that his unreliable hand wouldn't wreck the shot.

He got set in his stance, took a small practice swing, and then prepared himself for a painful hit.

Full swing, and the club slammed into the sand, and Chas was momentarily blinded by the pain shooting up through his arm. He clenched his eyes shut, and the only reason he knew his ball was on the green was because of the spattering of clapping from the crowd.

"Mr. Kramer? You okay?" His caddy said, and Chas nodded, forcing his eyes open and taking a look at his shot.

Eight yards from the hole, a slight right to left break. An easily missed putt under normal circumstances. He stepped up, handing his caddy the sand wedge and taking the putter from his bag.

His hand was throbbing, and he could feel warm blood drenching the bandage, but he had to keep his mind in the game. He stepped onto the green and kneeled down, taking an extra-close look at the putt.

_Don't think so much. You never had to before._

He stepped up to the ball, reading the green as quickly as he would've on any other eight yard putt on his home course. Then, he pulled the putter back and swiped forward.

It started slow, rolling forward a couple feet before catching the downhill break and speeding up.

_Too fast, too fast, it's gonna break too much…_

Chas almost closed his eyes. Moments later, he was glad he hadn't. The ball caught the rim of the hole, spun around it once, and dove into the cup neatly.

There was a huge bout of cheers and applause as he bashfully tipped his hat at the crowd and went to retrieve his ball from the hole. He even thought he saw a triumphant smirk on John's face.

_One more hole. Make birdie on this one and you tie the record and take the lead._

The par four eighteenth had only one hazard, but it was enough to make any amateur player sigh in frustration. In order to get on the green, one had to cross a wide creek.

_Just play it like the creek's not there. Lay up short of the water, use an iron to get over onto the green, putt it in. One under will do just fine, and you'll tie the record._

Though his whole arm was wracked with pain, his first drive went just as planned. It landed just a few yards short of the creek, the backspin stopping it moments after hitting the ground.

More applause, and Chas took a deep breath, meeting John's eye. The man nodded, and Chas smiled.

_At least one person is still on your side for tomorrow. Everyone else will think you wasted all your good shots today and you'll have nothin' left._

He walked up to his ball, eyeing the shot ahead. 110 yards to the green, easily reached with his nine-iron.

He pulled the club out, took a quick practice swing, and then put the pain in the back of his mind and took the swing.

It flew straight and true to his intentions, over the creek and landing softly on the green about five yards above the hole. Then came the part even he hadn't expected.

The way he hit the ball had put a nice backspin on it, and when the ball landed it shot backwards, slamming into the flagstick and rattling down into the cup.

Hole in two. An eagle. Two under par.

He'd broken the record on the eighteenth hole, with no intention to do so.

There was a beat of silence before this really sank in, and then the crowd around him erupted. As he headed up to retrieve his ball he was met with pats on the back, whistles, and even a doting father keeping pace with him to ask Chas if he wanted to meet (or possibly marry) his daughter.

He picked up the ball from the hole, unable to keep a smile off his face, and then he met John's gaze. His smile grew, and he tossed the ball at John, who jumped in surprise but caught it.

_Just one more day. You do that tomorrow, Chas, and you just might still have a fighting chance at winning this tournament._


	9. Chapter 9

That night, the other players and the club owners invited Chas to join them in the club bar for a few drinks after the round. Chas ordered non-alcoholic drinks, of course, but already the other golfers were treating him like 'one of the gang'. He was sitting at the bar with five of them, all participants in the tournament- Gregory, an accountant from Oceanside, Finley, a contractor from Orange County, Allen, a writer from Phoenix, Jim, who preferred to be called 'Jimbo', and Mike, a high school science teacher from San Diego.

"That eagle on eighteen…that was some great shit," Jimbo said, clasping a hand on Chas's shoulder. "Great shit, I'm tellin' ya."

"You're something else, kid," Finley, taking a swig of his beer. "You goin' pro?"

Chas shrugged sheepishly. "Don't know yet."

"You still in high school?"

"Graduated early. Last year."

"Somebody said you been livin' alone," a man said from behind Chas, and Chas immediately recognized him as one of the reporters that'd been tailing him the past few days.

"Uh…yeah. Yeah, I do."

"What about your family?"

Chas was spared having to answer that awkward question when the other guys at the bar started giving the reporter a hard time. The man retreated like a beaten puppy, and Chas returned his attention to the other guys.

Well, mostly. He was a bit taken aback by the way they looked out for him off the course- he felt _wanted_. Of course, he knew that the second they stepped foot on the course in the morning it would be back to business, high stakes competition…but right now, it felt so _warm_.

"Look out, boys…high clubbers in the house," Mike mumbled, and Chas glanced over his shoulder to see Dextera and a couple other golfers walk in- obviously the richest in the room.

Dextera caught sight of Chas and walked quickly to the bar, where he received scowls and hushed conversation from all the guys there. He didn't seem to care, though, and he extended his hand for a handshake with Chas.

"Excellent round today, Mr. Kramer," he said with a smirk as Chas swiveled around on the barstool. Chas held up his hand, displaying the bandage, leaving Dextera's hand untouched.

"Ah, yes. I forgot about your…mishap," he said, unfazed as he pulled his hand back. "Superb show of willpower, doing eighteen holes with such a nasty setback."

He reached over and took Mike's beer from him, and the mild mannered science teacher wasn't about to complain. Dextera raised the glass, as if he were performing a toast.

"Here's to hoping you can pull off the impossible again tomorrow, Mr. Kramer," he said, and then he took a drink from it and handed it back to Mike. Chas didn't reply; anyone watching (and everyone was) could tell that the toast was a mockery of Dextera's true wishes.

As Dextera walked away, Mike gave his glass of beer a disgusted look and pushed it away. The bartender had an understanding expression on his face as he replaced the glass with a different one.

"What a stuck-up bastard," Jimbo muttered as Dextera and his posse took a table across the room.

"He only finished with a 70," Mike pointed out.

"Yeah, but he thinks he finished with a 50. I'll bet he pays people to tell him that," Allen said, chuckling.

"Don't let him bother you," Mike said softly to Chas, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. "He thinks he owns California and everyone in it. But you've got over him today, by two strokes."

"More than any of us old fogeys could do," Gary said, receiving laughter and shoves from the other guys, as well as comparing of scores.

The scores had come in close. Chas was in the lead with 68, a professional from Maryland pulled in a close second with 69, then Mike and Dextera followed with even par, 70.

It was a close race, and Dextera was right on his heels. But no matter how close it was- all the guys at that bar were backing him up, supporting him, making sure he knew that they had his back all the way.

Chas was pulled from his thoughts when a caddy stepped into the clubhouse and yelled out the tee times had been posted for the following morning. A few of the guys stayed to finish their drink before going to have a look, but Chas and Mike decided to go ahead.

Chas was third to last to tee off that next day, almost two hours after Dextera, and about 40 minutes after Mike.

Knowing those scores as he played, however, could be either a blessing or a curse.

* * *

Chas got back to his hotel about 10, and he immediately set about taking a long shower. About the time he got his bathrobe wrapped around himself, there was a knock on his door.

He looked out the peephole, and sighed when he saw John standing there with the same doctor who'd done his stitches before. He opened the door, gesturing for them to come inside.

"Just stopping by to have a look at that cut, Mr. Kramer," the doctor said as John stood at the side, leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette. Chas closed the door and sat down on the bed.

"It really isn't that bad…"

"Let me have a look."

Chas reluctantly tugged off the bandages, and winced as the cool air hit the cut on his hand. The doctor clicked his tongue and set to work cleaning the wound and putting a couple fresh stitches in.

"You take it easy tomorrow, understand?" The doctor advised, and Chas nodded, though he had no intention of 'taking it easy'. The doctor gave him a few more tips on taking care of and bandaging the wound, and quick as that, he was gone.

"You did good today," John said, and Chas nodded.

"Thanks."

Cue awkward silence.

"Look, Chas…I have an apology to make," John suddenly said, and Chas looked up in surprise, unsure of where this was going. "I feel like I…like I pushed you into this."

"John, you know this wa-"

"No, let me finish," John said sharply, and Chas stopped talking, eyeing John warily.

"I feel like I pushed you too hard. Made you feel like you had to do this," John continued, and Chas had to bite his tongue to keep from saying something. "And, I just…I wanted to let you know…there wouldn't be any hard feelings if you didn't feel up to it."

Chas gaped at him for a few moments, and then he shook his head. "Am I hearing you right? Cause it sounds to me like you just told me to quit."

"No, Chas, that's not-"

"That's _exactly_ what it is!" Chas snapped, standing up. "You don't want to lose your damn bets if I lose, so you're tryin' to get me to drop out!"

John's eyes narrowed. "Now that's fuckin' ridiculous. I've been backin' you up this whole damn time. Hell, if it weren't for me, you wouldn't even have _gotten_ this far."

Chas felt his fists clench. "Get out."

"Look, I'm just tryin' to-"

"Get _out_!"

John obeyed this time. He hesitated, mumbled something about just trying to look out for Chas, and then he retreated into the hallway. Chas slammed the door shut behind him, and then collapsed on the bed.

He lay there for a few minutes, breathing hard, too angry to think straight. Then, he crawled across the bed and grabbed the phone and his address book from the nightstand, looking up a number and dialing.

_Fuck Dextera's threats, fuck these stupid feelings for John Constantine…_

"Hello, Mr. Burton? This is Chas Kramer. I just called to say…well, if I win this tournament, I can be packed up and ready to go to that Q-School in two days, tops."


	10. Chapter 10

Chas woke up three times during the night, his body temperature sky-rocketing, then plummeting moments later. And when he finally woke up with the alarm clock, he was shivering with a cold sweat, but his forehead was hot with fever.

"Infection," the doctor said on the phone when Chas called him moments later. "Come in and I'll do what I can."

So he did. He snuck out the back, away from the few press members waiting around to hound him, and he took a cab to the hospital and went straight to his doctor's office.

"I told you that you shouldn't have played yesterday," the doctor said as he took a look at the cut. "Just be glad we caught this early. You could've gotten blood poisoning."

"But I can still play today, right?"

The doctor gave Chas a stern look. "You're running a fever, you're weak, you're exhausted, you're stressed, and you're injured, and you still want to play?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"In my professional opinion-"

Chas sighed. "Listen, I _know_ your professional opinion. I know I _shouldn't _play today. What I'm asking you is if we can put any major treatment or bed rest off for one more day. One day is all I need."

The doctor stared at Chas for a few moments, and then he shrugged. "Well, you're not going to drop dead out there or anything-"

"That's all I needed to know."

* * *

When Chas arrived at the course, he did his best to mask any weakness, but it was apparent to everyone there that yesterday had zapped most of his strength. His hand felt like it was on fire, his head was throbbing, and he was having dizzy spells that made him go weak at the knees.

"You okay, kiddo? You don't look so good," Mike said as Chas walked into the locker room and started getting ready.

"I'm alright. Just tired."

"Well, you take it easy, alright? Give us old men a chance to catch up."

Chas laughed and nodded, and Mike walked to the door before looking over his shoulder at Chas.

"Hey, Kramer?"

"Yeah?"

"…You shoot a 66 today, and you'll break the club two round record."

Chas laughed again and shook his head. "I'll give it my best shot, but don't go making any bets on it."

"Too late, kid. All the rest of us guys went out late last night, got more drunk, and put quite a bit of money in the pot on you," Mike said with a grin and a wink before walking out the door.

Chas finished getting ready (which included spending a lot of time on his knees in the bathroom stall), and by the time he headed out to the tee even he wasn't sure he'd hold up. And on the walk to the first tee box, he saw something that didn't help his mood.

John Constantine, standing there, chatting up a storm with Chas's caddie.

He simply scowled at John, walking past him to his golf bag and tugging his driver out of it. He wasn't about to start another fight right before a round of golf.

"Chas…I wanted to apo-"

"Not now, John."

Despite the shock at John Constantine approaching him in public to apologize, Chas was having none of it.

John sighed. "Then I guess you wouldn't want to know that Dextera made par on the front nine and one under par around the back."

"Thanks for the info. Now get back in the gallery."

John stepped around Chas to look him in the eye. "Chas…you look like _shit_."

"So I've heard."

"Would you stop the act and just talk to me here, for one second?" John hissed quietly, so the crowd couldn't hear. "You're not gonna make it another eighteen holes. This is ridiculous."

Chas gave John a weak glare. "Look, I've made my choice, okay? I'm playing today. I'm gonna finish this round."

John sighed heavily, and then he ruffled Chas's hair. "Well, kid, you can go ahead and stay mad at me, but I'm gonna be here for you every step today, got it?"

Chas eyed John warily. "What's it for, huh? The bets?"

"I don't care about the bets, Chas. I just want you to make it through this."

After the first five holes, Chas was tempted to just throw in the towel and hand the tournament to Dextera on a silver platter.

3 pars, two bogeys. The course record was out of the question, and one more errant shot would likely put him out of the running for the tournament as well.

His gallery had begun to shrink from his first bad shot, and he could hear the whispered prophecies of his ultimate demise. 'It's too much for such a young guy', they were saying, 'he's reached the end of what he can manage. He was just a fluke'.

_Maybe they're right_, Chas thought. _Maybe I'm just not cut out for competitive golf. Hell, I've botched my first tournament in every way possible._

Chas looked up, and he met John's gaze. Chas was tired, exhausted, at the end of his line, and it was noticeable. Another step seemed like too much.

John took a drag off his cigarette, and then gestured to the other side of the gallery. Chas followed the gesture to find that Dextera and his manager had joined the small crowd following Chas along the course.

_Don't even know why he's here, _Chas thought as he pulled out his driver. _The title's as good as his._

Word had begun to spread that the 'young mustang' of golf had been stumbling on the first holes, and obviously Mr.Burton had caught wind of this and come to check up on his latest project. His expression was grim.

Everyone in that crowd, except John, thought that he was going to buckle and lose.

Things had come full circle.

_Go back to the start, Chas. This has all come too far, and it's taken your game with it. Remember those rounds you played back on your home course, with Damon, the ones where you were just playing a game that you loved? Those rounds where you could laugh at yourself, have an easy time of this?_

_What happened?_

Everything had gone too fast. And before Chas even realized he'd fallen, his caddie had leapt forward to grab him before he could hit the ground.

* * *

The course officials granted Chas fifteen minutes to get out of the sun and recover before they declared him a drop-out. So now, Chas was laying on a picnic table in the shade of a tent, only his caddy and John present, along with a doctor who'd been on hand.

"You really need to take a few days off, Mr. Kramer," the course doctor said. "Your body isn't keeping up with your mind.

"Not leavin' this course till I've played 18," Chas muttered stubbornly, his mind elsewhere.

"No use trying to convince him otherwise," John said nonchalantly, putting out his cigarette.

Chas had stopped hearing them by this point. He was practically in a trance, trying to remember, just trying to _feel _the way his swing worked in one fluid motion back before all this happened. Back when he was playing golf because it was fun, not because of the money, not for John's little revenge trip, not for any dreams of a future career.

_One shot at a time, Chas, get lost in the game. You've done it before, you can do it again._

"Mr. Kramer? It's time. Are you able to continue?" An official said from the doorway of the tent, and Chas sat up, a new spark in his eye and an almost-smile on his face.

"I'm coming," he said, standing up, hardly feeling the ground beneath his feet. Everything seemed distant- until he stepped out of the tent and back onto the course. Every blade of grass seemed sharpened, the flag was like a beacon, a kind of tunnel vision overcoming him. He reached the tee box, hardly noticing the applause and cheers that he was back on his feet, and when he caddie handed him his driver it was like someone had handed him back an arm or a leg.

Setup, practice swing, step forward, set up, backswing, downswing, clip off the grass, follow through. All like a well rehearsed dance move.

There was a beat of silence then applause as the ball shot straight down the fairway- Chas didn't hear it. He was already walking, already envisioning the next shot, barely hearing himself request his seven iron from his caddie.

The rest of the holes, up until the seventeenth, were much the same. Chas only had to get two birdies, one under par on each hole, to take the tournament outright. A birdie and a par would force a play-off, another day of golfing straight that his body likely wouldn't take well.

The seventeenth hole went like a dream. On the green in one, dropped a nine-footer for the birdie he needed.

_One more time. Just one more time._

Chas got on the green in two on the eighteenth par four. All he had to do was sink this eighteen foot putt, and he'd win. He could practically feel Dextera's eyes drilling into him, and he could tell the man wasn't happy- but he didn't care. This putt reminded him of one that he'd ended up with on his home course, when he was playing against Damon in friendly competition.

He'd made it then, easy, beating Damon by a stroke. He knew he could do it again.

Check the line, practice swing, set up, swipe back and forward, and the ball was rolling.

Straight downhill at first, then a slight break to the right, maybe too much…

There was that beautiful sound, that hollow clatter as the ball dropped into the hole, disappearing from the turf. And when the crowd erupted around him, it was the first time that Chas broke out of the haze he'd been in.

Chas practically fell over as the crowd swooped in on him, congratulating, slapping him on the back, throwing out offer after offer for the unexpected 'rising star'. Chas could see Burton grinning like the Cheshire cat, Dextera speaking in hushed, angry tones with his manager, and…

And John. Standing back from the crowd, smoking a cigarette, a slight smile on his face.

Somehow, it made the victory a little less sweet.

* * *

Chas wasn't sure how he made it through the awards dinner and presentation that afternoon. He wasn't even sure how many people he'd talked to, and how many interviews he set up. He did remember canceling the Q-School invitation with Burton, however.

Which was why he was shocked when he came back from an evening jog to his apartment three days later, and everything he owned was packed up, and John and Matthew Burton were standing amongst the boxes chatting.

"Hey…hey, what's going on?" He said, still a bit out of breath.

"The truck will be here any minute to pick up your stuff, kid. Welcome to the most prestigious Q-School in California," Burton said with a smile, and then his cell phone rang, and he left the room to get better reception outside.

Chas stared at John for a moment, glanced at the boxes, and finally it clicked.

"John…why?"

John smiled. "I told you, kid…I'm just looking out for you. And you, staying here in a dead end job…I'm not going to be the cause of that."

Chas could feel his throat tightening. "But I said I could work for it, John! I can _help _you!"

"You don't have the sight, Chas. Trying to do what I do, or even help without sight is like trying to become a pro golfer without a right arm. It's not gonna happen. And I'm not going to let you waste your life trying."

Chas looked around helplessly at the boxes, angrily swiping tears from his eyes.

"I don't wanna leave you."

John didn't answer in words. Instead he stepped forward and pulled Chas into a tight hug, one hand tangled in Chas's hair.

"I'm not what you need right now, kid. But…after you've gotten where you need to be, when you're on your own two feet…come back. I'll be waiting, I promise."

So the boxes were packed into a truck, Chas's golf clubs given a place of honor in the front of the truck, and Mr. Burton's stretch Lincoln served as a miniature limo to take Chas upstate in. Not another word, not another touch was shared between John and Chas- but right before stepping in the back of the car, Chas glanced back and gave John a smile.

And as the car pulled away, John pulled something out of his pocket.

A golf ball.

* * *

**Epilogue**

Chas Kramer was a household name within a year.

At the age of 17, Chas graduated from Q-School at the top of his class and was inducted with honors into the PGA tour.

At the age of 18, he became the youngest winner of the US Open, and came in an astounding third at the Masters Tournament in Augusta, Georgia.

At 19, he traveled overseas and placed 2nd in the howling winds of the British Open. He once again participated in the Masters Tournament, this time shattering through the competition, winning with a three stroke lead. He came in 2nd at the US Open that year, mostly due to a strained shoulder muscle.

At 20, he once again vied for England's top title at the British Open, and this time edged his way into first. He completed the double slam by winning the US Open again, holding both titles at once. Chas Kramer, to put it simply, would never have to worry about money again.

And so the trend continued. America was in love with the humble, sweet boy from the wrong side of the tracks, the boy who played every game with an ease and enjoyment rarely seen on such a professional level. The only enigma in the boy's simplistic personality was how a young man of such charm hadn't found himself a nice girl to settle down with- but people hardly cared. Only one man had anything bad to say about him, and no one listened to that man anyway, unless they were paid well to do so.

At 21, Chas Kramer announced that he was taking a three month break from the tour to go home before coming back in time to defend his title at the Masters.

John was waiting for him.


End file.
